Masochistic
by TheLions'PaleProtector
Summary: Looking at Hermione Granger, you wouldn't think her to be the masochistic sort. Looking at her life was another story. But her most masochistic by far was admitting to a foolish, hopeless love for Severus Snape. Or was it letting him know? Rated 4 safety


_**A/N:**__ Hi all ,this is my very first ficlet featuring Severus Snape and Hermione Granger, my second posted in the Harry Potter universe [though I've written dozens in the X-men universe under the penname CajunBelle, here and on other sites], and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed typing it up. I've already got a companion piece in the works, a longer one, but for now this is just a mini-bite [as opposed to a mega-byte. Haha... get it? Okay, maybe that was lame. I wasn't cut for comedy I guess]. It gets a bit introspective, almost like an inner monologue, but theres more action and HGSS goodness at the end, including a short but nice fantasy sex scene. Reviews definitely welcome!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ Obviously, I am not J.K Rowling, I don't own any of the characters as much as I wish otherwise, and I don't make anything from the production of this- I write just for the hell of it._

**Masochistic**

Just looking at seventh year Hermione Granger, you wouldn't imagine her to be the masochistic sort. She had quite a healthy respect for herself, and had definitely come into her own in the last few years. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft cinnamon curls highlighted with gold and red, her large amber eyes thickly lashed and framing her eyes beautifully, her lush mouth stained a lovely berry color. She made no further attempts to hide the lithe but sensuously curved figure she'd been gifted with, with all its assets. She'd even lighted her work load and took a more active role in her own social life, after no small amount of convincing on her friends' part. But looking at her life told a completely different story. Then it almost appeared she was the definition of the very word. Especially if you'd gone to Hogwarts. Cloistering herself in the confines of her small quarters in Gryffindor tower, or the uncomfortable old tables shoved in between racks and racks of dusty old tomes in the school library; sacrificing a social life and to some degree looks in her quest for knowledge [maybe to cover her feelings of inadequacy, esp. in the midst of students born into wizarding families] was one thing. As was subconsciously acquiescing to fading into the background as the two people who'd stuck around her reaped the glory and recognition she'd helped them achieve. Her fantasies were another.

Keeping after Harry Potter and Ron Weasely, helping them skate by for years by the skin of their teeth, and expecting them to suddenly become responsible, cautious and mindful of their studies was second nature. She didn't double think her friendship with gossipy Ginny even after the secret she told her one night became common knowledge in the entirety of the girls' dorm by morning. Though, reflecting back on it crushing on clueless, Quidditch obsessed [scholarly] slacking Ron and later cold, stuck-up, muggleborn hating pureblooded Draco was just asking for trouble. Yet no more [by far] than admitting a foolish, hopeless love of former Death Eater and spy, Professor Severus Snape. He swept into the room, his tall imposing form and patrician features radiating power, black robes billowing behind him like wings, and she held her breath. He'd fascinated her when she was younger [she refused to say child because she doubted she'd ever truly been one], a dark, twisted lure not unlike a moths' for the flame he knew would/could destroy him. He drew her in almost against her will, right from his first dramatic speech about ensnaring the senses, bewitching the mind, stoppering death…

His passion and dedication to his work, his keen intellect, was obvious and ever-present, even above his bent desire for humiliating or 'torturing' his students. He expected no less than excellence from all of them, despite their faults, and solidly refused to settle… even if it meant repeat detentions until they got it right. In Hermione's mind it made the others better students in an art that could [despite their protests to the opposite] someday save their lives- and presented her a challenge no one had before. One she time and time again rose to match. Knowing he demanded more from her than anyone else was an incredible compliment, though she kept that close to her heart. His sneers and snide comments just made her labor that much more, determined to someday win his approval [or at least grudging respect] no matter how impossible it seemed. Some of them stung more than others, like those referencing her appearance, but when she swallowed that down like bad medicine her surprisingly adult mind [or was it her little girls' heart?] told her it was because she'd advanced to the point her could no longer ridicule her intelligence. Her marks rivaled his for both for brilliance and the honor of being the highest in Hogwarts history.

Achieving that distinction on the figurative silver platter from the Headmaster himself post-exams last year had been… well, everything. How do you put to words the culmination of _over 5 years_ of toiling, the highlight that could launch her into the career opportunity of a lifetime? Her, a Muggleborn. She'd literally almost cried right there and then but made it through with glossy eyes and a quietly dignified smile. However when she sat down to ruminate on it later that very day, her journal before her, she had the stunning realization that it was a hollow victory until Snape himself echoed the sentiment. How sad was that? She should know better than anyone the futility of that dream. _'Should,'_ Hermione thought mockingly of herself. When had she ever let that limit her? She was just too darn stubborn sometimes, didn't know when to quit, as her dad would say [her mom, something of a… feminist, or 'woman's rights advocate', would be encouraging it]. When had the snarky 'dungeon bat' become such a centrifugal force in her life? A cornerstone on which her very happiness [she wouldn't go so far to say existence] hinged? Talk about masochistic. She'd hit a new low. Yet the young witch had been forewarned of the difficulty second year, if not the beginning. The challenge had been what intrigued her most, even if she hadn't fully grasped how bad it was. So giving up would be letting herself down, right?

A small voice told her everyone would understand if she did, promoted it really, but she knew not having it would have her miserable for decades after. So she sucked it up and pushed herself that much harder. Her thirst for knowledge was insatiable. The time-turner given to her fifth year only aided her cause, allowing her to take multiple classes at once. Maybe 'fed an addiction' would be a better descriptive phrase. Hermione sighed, leaning her face into the hand propped up on the desk and watching as the focus of her interests elegantly waved a pale, long-fingered hand and made today's lesson appear on the blackboard. Not many mastered wandless and wordless spells, but he'd not only perfected them but leglimency and occlumency as well. It only elevated him in her opinion. In leaps and bounds, like in third year when Professor Snape had leapt between them and the werewolf that was Remus Lupin [who, they later found, had terrified him since _he _was a teenager] without even a wand for protection… Was _that_ when he'd moved beyond inspiration and mentor-figure to romanticized hero in her head? Maybe not a Heathcliff or Mr. Darcy exactly, that'd be trivializing it, but _something_. Just thinking of what he's suffered over the last twenty years, the good he's done at the sake of his own well-being… And going unnoticed for it, underappreciated. Not that she'd ever pity him of course, that'd be just wrong [not to mention a death sentence].

Adding the last required ingredient to the cauldron without a thought, knowing her potions material front to back and used to operating on auto pilot, she tried not to focus on the sexy [sexy?] intensity in his bottomless onyx eyes or the tempting curve of his lips as he leaned over his own brew. Her academic triumph might yet be a hollow one, but as with most of her acquired knowledge, seeing it on paper alleviated some of the aching drive. Enough so she was able to direct a good portion of her energy elsewhere, like beautification spells that made her stand-out more, sparkle simply by enhancing her own natural charms. It got her all kinds of attention and offers [shockingly even from Malfoy], which warmed her inside, but it didn't quite bring her the satisfaction she'd imagined it would. Because that hadn't come from Snape either? Another stunning, and scary, insight. Instead he'd gone back to nit-picking her performance and methodology in class.

Once or twice, she could've sworn she saw appreciation on his face, but it might've just been wishful thinking. There was no other believable option- just like when she'd tripped last week, falling down half a flight of stairs when he broke her fall, and she thought she felt his body react… 'Fool,' the Gryffindor scoffed internally. 'Like he would want an insufferable know-it-all.' Only in her wildest dreams. Her dreams… A flush suffused her and she felt a tug deep inside. Happening since the summer before sixth year, it had certainly not made Potions any easier. Though in her studies she'd made sure to pick up Occlumency [knowing it'd be useful on many levels] it didn't change her hyper awareness of him or the shakiness she felt in his presence. She got wet just hearing his deep, silky voice- even laced with sarcasm or biting commentary. And after that run-in on the stairs, imagining his solid, muscled chest under her hands, his lean body against hers…. Hermione shivered. It was perverse, this obsession [how she hated that word!] with a snarky git who just seemed to hate her. Yet no one else made her feel this way, no one else caught her eye. She'd tried and failed to focus her affections on someone else. Even reminding herself on his more detestable characteristics didn't work. A wry smile shaped her lips. She'd always been his strongest advocate. It was both pain and pleasure intermingled.

Now her sleep cycle was disrupted because of these crazy, overly detailed erotic dreams and she was drifting off in class. Allowing herself to drift off in Severus Snape's class- now that was masochistic. Not hearing her name being called several times and the tap on her shoulder going unnoticed, she was soon subject to the cool, smooth probe of a Leglimens. Suddenly aware of the shadowy whisper in the back of her mind that both was and wasn't familiar, she snapped to attention and suddenly heavily guarded wards were slammed up, the equivalent of a titanium door on her mind. Hermione looked at him with a mixture of surprise, confusion and anger on her face and was soon engaged in an intense battle of wills. Yea, the disrupted sleep and pent up frustration had to have seriously effected her mind, because unless he was manipulating it [and why would he?] there would be no way she'd just drop her walls and let him into her thoughts. But with a wild, willful and unapologetic look she did. And with a shudder on her part, he was plunging headfirst into the months of repressed feelings, dreams and desires that had been on top of her mind. Including a pretty incriminating but tasty recent fantasy sequence. Time seeming to stand still, she re-lived each scene as he examined them in her head.

Hermione was striding into the dungeons in a tight fitting facsimile of her Hogwarts uniform complete with short skirt, no robes, for detention. Then there was Severus [she felt free to use his first name in her dreams], reprimanding her for an outfit 'unbecoming a young lady and student of this establishment' and docking house points. Laughing, she teased him, far more confident there than she'd ever been consciously and knowing this Professor wanted her in return. Her fantasy man told her she was playing with fire and her response was 'let us both burn then. I like it hot. Do you, professor?' Advancing, she ran her hands up his chest, pressing up against the body that made her ache in anticipation. He pulled away long enough for her to see his shock, but also his desire, and he stared so long she was afraid he was going to try pushing her away again... only instead he pulled her closer against that chest and gave her a crushing kiss. She gloried in it, wanting to be devoured by him, and suddenly he was- trapping her against the hard dungeon wall with a muttered 'Incarcerous.' Her body reacted violently. Passionately. Those strong, capable Masters' hands she'd long admired roved freely over her body as if wanting to commit every each to memory.

With him squeezing her breasts roughly, trailing demanding hands over her quivering stomach, teasing along the edges of her waistband, down to her creamy thighs where the skirts' hem ended… She was ablaze and half-gone mentally before he even removed a stitch. Then in a flash she was naked and her front was pressed against the cool brick, with him equally naked at her back and making her writhe and moan at all the tactile sensations. Biting her lip, she felt his hands grip her hips, and muffled a scream when she felt him thrust inside her tight, wet heat. Hearing all the sounds loosened from his lips was just fuel on the fire, loving that he took such great pleasure from her body. Turning around in his arms, she levied herself up on the wall and wrapped her long legs around his wait, rotating her hips so the new angle had him deeper inside her, which had them both screaming. The lovely way he was pouncing inside her she didn't even feel/notice her wall repeatedly hitting her back, getting scratched up. But apparently he did and he apparated them to his bedroom and healing her back in a flash without pulling out of her. The dream all the more vivid and realistic with him going through it in her head, Hermione still felt every bit of him fucking her from behind on that bed, rocketing with the orgasm of her life.

Then it was over and she was still sitting in her seat, flushed and shuddering, eyes glazed and heart racing. And she knew without a doubt her knickers were soaked. And Snape barely stirred, the desirous look fading and his gaze becoming shuttered, hooded. The unreadable mask hadn't slipped more than that little bit, but those previously icy obsidian orbs were white-hot infernos, 'or twin pools of sin and wickedness,' the young witch thought, licking her lips and remembering the taste as if it'd actually happened. The corners of his delectable, kissable mouth were still curved in a cross between that sexy, discreet smile and a smirk. But it was quickly veiled as well and she wondered if she'd imagined that too. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for daydreaming in my class," he practically purred in that voice that was like dark velvet and warm whisky. "Ten points for the obvious foolishness and daring." Her skin, which had gone from a blushing rose to paper white as he pulled out of her mind, got goosebumps and she gulped past the rapidly rising panic of what he'd witnessed firsthand. Her life was going to be more miserable than ever, she knew it. Still feeling faint, she kept her head down the rest of class and tried to pretend she was invisible, though she still felt his gaze. When the bell rang, she jumped up thankfully, jostling several other students in her hurry to escape before she heard that voice again. "Oh, Miss Granger?" She turned around slowly, dread filling her. "See me tonight at 8 for detention." With that, he returned to his task of shelving ingredients and she was running down the hall on shaky legs.


End file.
